


From Hotel to Hotel

by Arthurs_Logbook



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 19:19:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18321587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arthurs_Logbook/pseuds/Arthurs_Logbook
Summary: Although… Maybe it wasn’t the music that attracted such pitiful people, but rather the vocalist who played the electric guitar rather skillfully with that pretty face of his.





	From Hotel to Hotel

**Author's Note:**

> Heya! I know I haven't written anything in a while or added anything to my previous fic, Dark Circles, but here's something that might be fun. This was inspired after all of the modern AU art I've been seeing, so I'm sure someone's already made a Morston fic with them being in a band. But anyways, I hope you enjoy.

Lights, beaming buckets of glitter shined redder than the plumpest, juiciest, and richest cherry in the tree. Music, loud and consuming pumped through the wires of an electric guitar, complementing the pounding across a busted drum set alongside the hum of a keyboard. And hearts, chambers full of blood thicker and more syrupy than whiskey pounded fiercely to the beat, intoxicated.

Red Dead Redemption, an Alternative Rock Indie band performed like stars that night upon the cramped pub stage as they did with every performance. As of recent, they’ve had a streak at being either accepted or invited to multiple bars, pubs, and hang-outs. It was without a doubt John Marston, the lead vocalist, attended each one in need of the cash whether everyone was there to show up or not. The gang wasn’t popular in no means, but they were decently well known as their music was good enough for the ears of drunk desperate girls or men who mourned at the lack of their social life.

Hell, that was clear.

The majority of the pub blended well to the music, entranced. Groups of people, either standing, slumped against a chair, or sloppily dancing thrived to the addictive beats that flourished through the speakers and microphones, many heads were bobbing and alcoholic drinks were gushing through their systems like no other. It was an impressive show after all. Even had Arthur Morgan sneering his canines.

Arthur Morgan was merely John’s best friend and the artist who designed every drop of work the band had to produce. Album covers, promotional posters, logos, you name it, he was the man working all that magic. Nothing important though, at least that’s what Arthur saw of himself. John, on the other hand, praised his work, but he knew the man liked to flaunt for those who didn’t.

Hand hugged around a glass bottle of bourbon and the other sluggishly carding through the locks of his dirty blonde hair, Arthur sat perched on a faux velvet stool, absorbed. Despite the fact he frequented each and every show Red Dead played, the trio dazzling on stage never failed to amaze and impress him more and more. Each time was like an all-new experience, almost as if he had never heard a track in spite of him knowing the words to all the songs. It was a warm feeling, a sensation he had grown addicted to ever since their first show in their hometown of Blackwater.

Arthur couldn’t get enough and neither could the Golden Boy by the looks of it.

Placed in the center of the vermilion lit stage jived John, hips swinging and one of his “heeled” boots (John swore they aren’t heels but everyone knows they are) not missing a beat.

He was decked out in sluggish attire, a duster that definitely had some goddamn dust, jeans naturally ripped from god knows what, a crummy white undershirt tucked into said jeans, a dumbass western hat that desperately needed an upgrade, and finally a polished red choker (John swore it’s a bandana) that caressed that neck so fondly. Only an idiot like John Marston would wear such a sweltering outfit on stage beneath all those lights during the midsummer. Arthur wasn’t complaining though…

Given the sight of it all.

The stage brought out all the life in John through the way he moved so free. Arthur couldn’t complain about either nor did he want to.

As the young leader wrapped up his cover of Lady Picture Show by Stone Temple Pilots, a band he’s always idolized, Arthur stared. He had been staring the whole time, occasionally taking a glimpse at Lenny and Sean, the other two members of the band, but as the music faded out and the rays of light grew dark, all he could focus on was John. John fucking Marston.

A few more songs were performed by the trio, some being trending covers from their day and age and other’s being the songs they’ve crafted themselves. While Lenny and Sean took a liking to writing music, John lacking the words or brain to do such a thing, it surprised Arthur when the final tune he sang for the night was actually written from the genius himself. They’ve never before played this one publically or released it online, so this was definitely… _a surprise_.

Arthur took a heavy swig.

“Lone Wolf,” the song was called. It was more on the moody romantic side. Slow. Very in contrast from their other tracks. Telling a metaphoric tale of how lonely it was that a relationship of ones was only allowed be held in their imagination, the number could definitely be portrayed as edgy. Arthur supposed that’s what made it special to their style.

This was John’s only song, so there had to be a relation that lay in it somewhere.

_Somewhere…_

Long and languorous, the dark corners of John’s lips sneered to the gradual beat of a low drum and gentle ring of cymbals starting off the melody, those dark eyes of his hidden behind a curtain of lashes as they mysteriously lurked. He was scanning the crowd of loopy eyeballs gaping back at him, that infamous grin growing longer… and longer… and longer…

Then, John found what he was looking for.

Arthur.

Marston’s sneer morphed and altered into more of a half smirk upon finding his prey, as if no one else, not even the other members of the gang stood in that bar with them.

Arthur’s throat went dry.

Arthur was quick to guzzle down another big gulp of his drink, leaving the bottle to now stand empty on the filthy countertop, all the while his connection with John and himself never breaking in spite of herds of people stuck between.

Finally, that dumb mouth of his opened.

 

_“You always pity him,_

_But his thoughts regained a feeling._

_You once had told him,_

_That his thoughts were too revealing.”_

 

Tilting his head back at the pause, keeping his half-lidded gaze honed on Arthur, John combed a hand through his locks. His hair, greasy, almost oil-slick, strands loose and out of order framed his scarred face like it was a work of art.

He knew how he looked.

 

_“So he took to another realm_

_To engulf,_

_A realm where he was not_

_A lone wolf._

_A lone wolf.”_

 

Rivulets of sweat rolled down the leader’s temples, glinting and shimmering beautifully beneath the scarlet spotlight as he played his bony fingers along the strings of his black guitar.

 

_“Sometimes it’s better for,_

_For his urges to surrender._

_Sometimes it’s better for,_

_For his heart to surge and flounder.”_

 

Damn right Arthur was enchanted. He must’ve unconsciously leaned in a smidge on the bar’s stool as the only movement that crept through his broad shoulders was the gentle rise and fall of his breath fit to the beat. He was put under John’s spell, that was for sure.

 

_“Laying late at night, he can’t help_

_But cry._

_As he wonders what he did that_

_Went awry._

_What went awry?”_

 

At that moment, as the rest of the instrumental faded out, Arthur could’ve sworn John’s eyes twitched downwards and away.

The small stage was silenced by flooding darkness. A few seconds of pure silence stood, but then the eruption of drunken shouts and yells sounding off the wooden walls came all at once. It was utter chaos. The way young women nearly burnt themselves on the lightbulbs framing the bottom of the stage as they tried to personally hand John money, how some men laughed like thunder and other’s clapping.

Everything felt hot.

 

. . .

 

Let’s just say that the band, Red Dead Redemption, had done pretty damn well for performing in a compact, poky pub in the middle of nowhere.

After the show, all three, John, Lenny, and Sean were beaming when they materialized out from the staff only door, their laughter drowned out by prerecorded pop songs pounding through the speakers. Everyone was smiling, including Arthur.

They all had a few shots drinks to treat themselves, in an exception for Lenny as he was their ride back to the hotel. Nevertheless, as usual, it didn’t take long for all four of them to begin to become pestered and vexed by the drunkards who nagged and pleaded at their boots.

Ever since they first started, Arthur had noticed people always took advantage of John whenever there was an opening. Some girls would pull lousy attempts at earning a look or a brief touch from him whilst some men would bicker and whine at his shoulders for a free drink after he made all that cash on stage. If only they knew the majority of wads that flew on that grimy stage were poultry one dollar bills. Nevertheless, on any occasion, none of their piss poor tries worked. It was all thanks to the deadly looks Arthur gave each and every one of them, of course.

“And I thought you said you ain’t gonna play that song until it was released, Marston,” Arthur teased, John now seated next to him on his own jankity faux stool.

“Guess I jus’ was too eager, huh?”

“Ohh, I’m jus’ rattlin’ your cage, Johnny boy. Thought you did amazin’. You in your heels and all.”

Before John had time to interject the tease, a short shot glass of some alcoholic beverage was pushed between their faces, interrupting the conversation for him. “Got you boys some more to drink. Now com’on! To a great performance!” Sean exclaimed, urging the two to lift the new drinks that had appeared in front of themselves.

“Uhuh.”

“Yessir!”

. . .

The luminosity of hot pink, lime green, and fluorescent blue neon lights flew past the car windows like rockets, reflecting through Arthur’s glazed eyes as he peered out. His exhausted body laid loose against the door, forehead pressed to the frigid glass as a long groan exhaled like a ghost through his mouth. Two other long groans mewled out in agreement.

“Aw, shit, you guys. Think you all had too much to drink,” Lenny chuckled, his focus kept on the road.

Hesitantly sliding his head off the window to roll backward, Arthur barked back, “Nah, if it weren’t for that girl all huggin’ up against John we would’a had more.” That meager remark wrenched a small fit of pained murmurs to emerge from the back of the car, none of which filled with any humor, but was swallowed up to the exhausted noises of three drunk men all worn to the bone.

. . .

A punch of a deathly floral fragrance mixed with thousands upon thousands of different types of cleaners smacked Arthur across the face as the automatic doors lagged open. Sloppily pulling not only his suitcase into the cheap establishment, but also John’s (John said it was too heavy for him right then), a keycard to a double bedded room was shoved into his breast pocket. Unbothered, and too tired to care at protesting, he was immediately abandoned on his own anyways from the only sober person in the group as Lenny vanished behind sleek, snot stained elevator doors with Sean looped to his side.

Only Arthur’s luck would be this misfortunate as it left him with two suitcases, an unknown room number, and a moping John Marston that tried to work the free coffee machine.

Jesus Christ.

“John.”

A stack of coffee filters tumbled onto the floor.

“Goddammit, John. Come on, I’m tired.”

Grumbling, trying scrape up the dirtied filters scattered across the muddy carpet as if to put them back like nothing ever happened, Marston just grunted a small, “I’m busy.”

If only Arthur had the free hands to drag this brat along the dog piss stained floors, he would in a heartbeat. During times like this, John could really get out of hand and act like a stupid teenager pumped with drugs in defiance of him being in his mid-twenties with some cheap alcohol in his system. Sometimes it could get on Morgan’s nerves like a pesky fly in an ear, but all he could do then and there was grin like a fool.

In the end, no matter what, he always stood. Stood and waited.

That is until it felt like he was watching the thickest paint dry.

“Boy, you better not get on my nerves again.”

With that, all the coffee filters sputtered along the floor once more as John swiveled swift on his heel, stumbling a tad as he bumped past the artist with a snort.

“Relax,” the younger slurred. “I ammmm, Arthurrr... I’mmm cominnn’, hahaaaa…”

“Oh dear god.”

It took a minute or ten for the plastered men to find the correct room in addition to another minute or five to manage at getting the keycard to properly insert to unlock. As soon as that wooden door flew open and the frigid air conditioning blasted against their sweaty faces, you better believe John tripped inside and landed straight onto his face like it was his destiny.

Releasing a yap of a laugh as he slammed the door shut, Arthur was prompt to be silenced, his body walloping the floor next to John. Damn devil snatched his ankle and took him down with him.

“What was that for!?” He asked, a wheezing laugh bubbling back up in his throat.

“For laughinnn’, you dumbass!”

They two cackled like wild hyena’s, their unfocused eyes going in whatever direction their face leaned... Which happened to be right at one another.

“A man can’t laugh at a-” Arthur sneezed three times down into the floor before restarting, “A man can’t laugh at another fool-” Cut off again, but this time it instead of a sneeze storm, he could feel the palm of John’s hand roughly, but playfully pushing against his cheek.

“Jus’ shut up already, youuuu,” John hissed out, his hand slipping onto the floor lazily.

Arthur rolled his eyes dramatically before he sought outwards, beginning to army crawl closer to the bed as if his legs were pure jello. As he began to lift himself onto the side of one of the mattresses, it wasn’t much of a surprise when he was immediately shut down.

A sharp hold tackled down onto his forearm with as much strength as a shitfaced moron like John could have and brought a small “oomph” out of the elder as he was thrown flat on his back.

A silent laugh, more breathy than anything hung in the air, before a “where youuuu think’ yerrr goin’,” was smeared through.

“T’sleep, you moron.”

“Ain’t even late thoughhh!”

“Yer tired too, John. Jus’ look at’cha. Now, if you don’t mind me, I’m gunna-”

Abrupt, the dark silhouette that had hung above Arthur crumbled, it’s scrunched face pressing hard against his chest. An obnoxiously loud snore was quick to follow.

Bleary-eyed, he blinked hard, his neck cranking to get a good look at the bastard. Greasy hair, slick with musky scented sweat pooled along his neck, a nose cut by an old scar smushed against his collarbone, and hands so talented now crumpled up on either side of them, all loose and vulnerable.

The pair had been shitfaced more times than one could count in all their history of being friends, but something thick hung in the air as John’s dead weight laid out on Arthur like a sack of potatoes. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what the feeling exactly felt like, but as much as he could recall, it felt abnormally familiar to that moment shared between them earlier at the pub.

Enchanted. That was a good word for it.

Placed under a spell, Arthur was. Bewitched and filled with delight.

Charmed.

A smile on his face, Arthur drew in a long inhale, and as he exhaled, the shadow of slumber was cast over him too, dragging him into the depths of blacking out.

Maybe Lenny was right about having too much to drink.


End file.
